


Shedding

by Glacialis



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Blackwater AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 15:37:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16621739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glacialis/pseuds/Glacialis
Summary: Sansa is on the road with the Hound, by choice or against her will we do not know. The Hound plans to take her to her family but news of the Red Wedding reach them on the way.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I will be thankful if you let me know of any misspellings and such.

It was the same dream again. She came to him, hot, wet and willing. He grabbed her hips and pulled them against him, grinding his hardness against the cleft of her buttocks. He would have her, any moment now. He would have her. In the dream it wasn't wrong. In the dream he could. In the dream she always met his gaze.

At dawn he woke with the little bird clutched tight in his arms. Was she there willingly? Had the night been too cold? Had she been frightened by the dark woods? Had she sought his protection in the night? She was stiff, and remained lying where she was when he got up to saddle Stranger for another day of riding.

 

The damp night rustled, hooted and howled. The sounds of the forest animals kept her awake, as did the fear for a new assault. And soon it came. First the snore, then the heavy, even breathing, and then his hands, groping at her from behind, tugging and pulling, kneading her breasts, grabbing her woman's place through her clothes, grinding his rigid manhood against her. She wept hot tears and clenched her teeth as not to scream out with disgust. If this was the price of getting away from the stalking lions, she would endure it. She would endure anything to be home again, be with Mother and Robb and Bran and Rickon. Back at Winterfell.

 

Nights grew colder and they grew worse. At times he slept the night through, but when he did not his hands grew more demanding, more harsh. Finally he rolled with her, spread her legs with his own and trapped her prone under him. "Please, ser! Please stop!" she tried to cry out, but he was crushing her under him and she couldn't breathe. She clawed at the ground, desperate to get away from under his massive bulk. He wasn't awake. Couldn't be. She started to pound him with her fists as best she could, him being behind her. Wake up, wake up, please wake up, ringing in each blow.

 

The girl was silent during their rides. She made no noise, barely ate, and still would not look at him. It irritated him, and yet what right did he have to expect any better, drunk, seething and angry as he had been in her chambers. And the blade... The blade... 

It was a wonder she had come with him at all, a testimony not to trust but to her fear and despair.

 

She felt herself growing weaker. Her sturpor in the saddle did not make up for sleepless nights, and days slurred into each other. She wanted to stop and wash, but he kept a gruelling pace, stopping only to sleep. She wanted to feel safe, but he rode as if he could hear the hoofbeats of the Lannister men in his ears all the time. How many nights of this they had left? She wanted to know but didn't dare to ask. He was angry all the time, brooding. Did he want her right now? Was he watching her, thinking of the things hidden under her dirty, bloodstained, travel-tattered dress? She remembered what septa Mordane had told her about what she would have to endure from her husband once married, and the thought that the Hound must know about those things as well made her feel unclean.


	2. Chapter 2

This was not like before. The urgency was not there, nor the roughness or the fear. He moved slowly, gently, moaning in his sleep. He was less angry now, less fierce. His hot, wet mouth was trailing her neck, licking, kissing, breathing into her skin. The feeling was like nothing she'd ever experienced before. One side of his mouth soft, the other hard, raking at her sensitive spots – ones she hadn't even known were there. Seven save me, she thought when she just lay still and didn't try to stop him, lay still and hoped he wouldn't wake up or roll away, lay still and allowed herself to sink into the feeling.

Every little move, every new kiss, every new drag of his hot mouth on her skin gripped at her, thrilled her, woke something inside her, in her stomach, and lower. Something restless and new. It was harder and harder to stay still, her body wanted to move, a compulsion within her, urging her to squirm and gasp and moan. Her breasts felt strange, as if they now longed for the rough kneading of his large, clumsy paws.

She felt his hardness again, his desire a hard length against her behind. The thought of it, of his want, made the pool of warmth in her nether regions spill over and she could feel something between her legs, a slickness, a tickle, a need.

She shouldn't have felt disappointed when Clegane let go of her and turned in his sleep. Yet she did. She reached under her dress and felt the wetness there. She pulled her hand out, panicking. Not now! Yet when she looked at her fingers in the soft glow of the moon they weren't dark with blood but glinting with something. Something else.

Next morning it wasn't so hard to look up at him and meet his gaze. What he'd done in the night had been different from the coarse, needy, heated groping. He hadn't frightened her. He had... pleasured her. 

Had his rasp become less brutal, his words less cruel? No, not really. Only during the nights did the scowl on his face melt away. Yet now that it did, his harsh gropes begun to thrill her as much as the gentle kisses did, and secretly she started to unlace her dress for the night so he could find more of her skin on his unwitting explorations under their cloaks.

She didn't want to believe that the Sansa she'd been was but some rehearsed lie that she shed here in the dark intimacy of the wilderness. She should have woken him the first time it happened, should have stopped him, should have done anything – but she hadn't, and didn't. She just lay there, night after night, first too afraid, then too ashamed and now reluctant to move. 

Each day of their bedraggled journey made her remember less and less of the highborn girl she'd been. Maybe all that had been a dream. Maybe this was who she really was, a camp follower, a dirty, destitute wench. And when all else fell away all she had was the nights, and her own dreams that she chased, biting her lip, squirming softly, trying not to let the quick, sharp gasps out, trying to breathe even and not break the spell.


	3. Chapter 3

The ship lurched and rolled with the waves, swinging them gently like a cradle.

"This isn't right," groaned the big, sleepy man under her. "Stop it, Sansa." 

But Sansa Stark was no more. There was only this creature, straddling a half-naked man, sliding down his body, teasing his manhood with her hands, cunt and mouth until resistance, sanity and all else was lost and he'd roll with her, pin her down, and push into her with a groan, no longer caring that she was broken, that her face was wet with tears.

She was a wolf bitch. Feral on all fours. She loved the pain and the abandon. Loved the way his mad, brutal pounding within her drove the world away. All she was was this, all she had was here, in the dark cabin and its nothingness.

The blood and pain of the first time had felt fitting. Like a death of her own, another Red Wedding. Like sharing in the blood and pain of all those she'd lost. Sansa Stark died that night and became ...someone else. A Stranger.


	4. Chapter 4

Their cottage was small and her dresses not of silk, but she'd gladly eat and dress and live like a fishwife to live free and in peace. To live where the only bruises adorning her skin were of Sandor's ardor, where the only pain was his manhood stretching her from within.

He'd refused to make a whore out of her, so they had married according to local customs, but she felt like she was living the life of someone else. There was a woman here, a wife keeping house, caring for her husband, opening to him at night. And then there was a girl, somewhere in a cold, wet forest, mute and paralyzed with grief. A girl whose whole family had been slain or lost. A girl who was still there, forever trapped in that moment. A girl who would never feel whole. A girl with veins full of the ice and snow of North.

 

But summer follows winter, always. New life springs from dead ground. A girl will come alive at the sound of the door, at the smell of a man's skin. A girl will melt with a warm look from a scarred face. A girl will burn with hot, living fire at the touch of her husband's hands, mouth and body. A girl-woman of ice and fire. A girl-woman who has something to tell her husband. A girl-woman who is starting to heal, maybe. A girl-woman who loved, and soon will love more. A girl-woman who will soon rock their first little pup on her breast.

She would have a family again. And no one would ever hurt her or hers again. Or, she knew, he'd kill them.


End file.
